Dirty Paws
by AwesomeOliver
Summary: "John Watson was a very good thing for him. A dog does not judge, it does not insult, it does not lie, and it is a friend to anyone that treats them right. And if there was anything Sherlock needed, it was a friend." Puppy/Dog!John AU
1. Chapter 1

Phew, ok. Well, here I go. First Sherlock story. I've got this!

Welcome all who come to this little one-shot collection! And yes, the title was taken from the Of Monsters and Men song, Dirty Paws.

This story was inspired by **ausherlock's** Little Companion story collection.

If you like this story, go and check them out!

**_Disclaimer: I do not own anything Sherlock. Not the books, nor the movies, nor the tv show. I own nothing._**

* * *

As soon as Mike Stamford stepped through the door to his flat, Sherlock knew he'd brought some sort of surprise for him.

There were many ways to tell. The smile on his face, the way he held his hands behind his back, the way his eyes kept glancing back behind him at the opened door as he made, what Sherlock deemed dull, small talk. However, perhaps the most obvious sign was Mrs. Hudson's cooing he heard from downstairs.

Obviously an animal of some sort. Or a child. Sherlock didn't consider either prospect enjoyable.

The consulting detective went back to looking at the amoeba at the other end of his microscope, "Whatever it is Mike I do not want it."

"Oh, come now Sherlock. I haven't even shown you what it is yet!"

"I'm not interested. Especially not in anything living. Bring me a dead specimen and I'll reconsider."

"And leave you by yourself? I'm just giving you something to help you, surely you get bored up in this place all on your lonesome."

Well, Sherlock at least gave the man some credit, that was true. Obvious to even the stupidest of ordinary people, but still a good observation. There had been a sort of dry-spell in cases recently. And by "dry-spell", of course he meant more than a week without a new case. Lestrade seemed happy about this for some reason or another, but it was driving the detective mad. His mind rebelled at the stagnation of it all. He would take anything right about now, even the simplest of cold cases left in the Scotland Yard archives.

He looked back at Mike, maybe Sherlock could take him up on his offer. Depending on what it was. It would certainly make a break in this period of stagnation.

He immediately changed his mind as Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, "Oh, Sherlock! Look at him, he's quite a darling fellow isn't he?"

On the end of a leash, in the doorway of his flat, stood a dog. A bloody _dog_.

A list of all the effects the animal could have on his home and himself went through his mind: scratched floors, ruined furniture, hair everywhere, thick saliva, defecation in the hallway, high percentage of it getting into his experiments, not to mention the smell.

He sent an irritated glare at Mike, "No."

Mike either ignored him or didn't hear his comment. Sherlock suspected it was the former.

"This is John Watson. Recently retired from Manchester's canine police unit. A search and rescue dog, as well as a brilliant bomb and drug detection dog."

Hm, slightly more interesting, but nothing that made Sherlock as excited as the prospect of a case did.

Mike went over to the creature and unhooked him (for the dog was clearly male) from the leash before handing it to Mrs. Hudson, thanking her for the tea she obviously offered while she went back downstairs.

"Don't let it loose!" Sherlock shouted from the kitchen stool, affronted, as the dog wandered leisurely around the flat, sniffing at things.

The clicks from its claws against the floor were off-beat, and Sherlock noted the way the dog's left foreleg stuck out awkwardly from the shoulder joint as it walked, giving it a slight limp. It gave the dog a lazy drawl of a walk, and Sherlock could see stitches nestled in the skin on a shaved patch of fur.

It didn't seem to be of a certain breed, although the light blonde coat and expressive eyes suggested Labrador Retriever. The long muzzle and sleekly muscular body were definitely of a German Shepherd decent, so it had purebred genetics, probably from it's mother considering how prominent they were. So Labrador-German Shepherd mix.

But, no. There was a third breed in his lineage. The fur was long, but not quite long enough to be a hassle. That could have been from the Shepherd, but there was just as much of a chance it was another. The muted blue eyes and half-fold of his ears suggested Siberian Husky, Malamute, Australian Shepherd, or possibly another sledding or herding breed. Sherlock couldn't be entirely accurate without a DNA sample.

"No," he restated, and went back to his experiment.

Mike sighed, "I haven't even proposed anything to you!"

"You're going to ask me to keep an ownerless dog, one with a handicap no less. I don't want it, take it to the animal shelter."

"What? John? No! Look, I ran into your brother a week ago and he told me about how you were here all by yourself and suggested that you could use a companion."

Sherlock scoffed, silently shouting many inappropriate words to Mycroft in his head, of course his brother would be behind this. Trying to interfere with his life, as always. He'd get an earfull the next time he dared to show his face at Baker Street.

"Oh, please, I'm perfectly fine. I've got my skull friend….and Mrs. Hudson."

"John is an extremely well trained dog. I think it'll be good for you-"

"No, Mike. The canine species can be filthy and temperamental. He'll not do to stay with me. Surely he will eat me in my sleep."

He heard the clicking of the dogs nails increased in pace, and it seemed John (Really? What kind of name for a dog was "John Watson"?) finally noticed him sitting on his chair, and walked up to him, light brown ears perked up. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the dog sat next to his chair.

At first he said nothing, and let John judge him in his animalistic way. The mutt, with his brown nose, sniffed at his ankle, then up his leg to his knee. Seeming satisfied, the dog pressed its nose against his thigh before trotting over to Mike, tail wagging lazily as the man scratched him behind his ears. Pathetic.

Sherlock went back to his experiment once more. The amoebas were much more entertaining.

"He was a very good police dog, one of the smartest too. He's only about a year old you know? Bloody brilliant. He was even sent over to Afghanistan with his owner to help sniff out and navigate mine fields over there."

Sherlock didn't respond. Dull. He could do that in his sleep.

"Let me guess," he said, not that he ever guessed, "Took a bullet in the line of duty? Based on the stitches in his shoulder, it happened about two weeks ago."

The pause that followed held a somber aura, one Sherlock didn't need to see to notice.

"He was shot protecting his owner, yes," Mike said.

Ah, yes, the sob story. Sherlock knew it was coming and there it was.

"His owner, Captain Conan Riley, who was a friend of mine, died two seconds afterward from a shot to the head."

The amoebas were moving rapidly under his scrutiny. He wondered if more acid would affect them enough to-

"John didn't leave Captain Riley until the body was back over in the UK."

Now that, _that _made him pause. He looked back down at the pup, for dogs were technically puppies until around three years of age and this one was only about 13 months old at the most. Just slightly off from what Mike had guessed.

He focused back on Stamford, "The veterinarians didn't take him?"

"Well, he would snap and growl if they tried to. Didn't care if the doctors handled Captain Riley's body, but wouldn't budge when the animal caretakers went to retrieve him and treat his shoulder. That's why he has that limp. The tissue wasn't treated for days. And then, since I was Riley's friend, they handed John over to me. Unfortunately, I can't keep him. I've already got two dogs, and…well, yeah. That's why I thought you might like to take him."

So, a puppy that was shot in a war zone, and was loyal enough to stay with his dead owner until they were forced apart.

Sherlock hummed, "Interesting."

He hopped down from his stool at the kitchen table for the first time since Mike came in.

The pup stood at attention, almost soldier-like, when it noticed Sherlock come up. Sherlock noticed that John's paws were the same light shade of brown that was on his ears and muzzle.

Sherlock stared him down, willing the pup to look away first, fighting silently for dominance, for the position as alpha. John held his gaze long, but didn't seem to mind losing the fight as he went and limped into the kitchen to sniff out what lay hidden up on the table.

John jumped onto his hind legs slightly to see what the smells were coming from before trotting off to a different portion of the flat.

Sherlock watched John move about. Perhaps having the creature would be interesting. It would certainly keep him at least slightly entertained for a while. He'd just bring John to the pound once he got bored.

Mike watched him with hopeful eyes, "So will you take him?"

Sherlock nodded with a stoic expression, and no this was not excitement he was hiding. There was no a way a dog could be exciting.

"Why not? If it gets my brother off my back, so be it."

Mike let out a breath of relief, and Sherlock thought it idiotic the man would be that worried about the dog, "Good, good, that's great! You won't regret it Sherlock. You'll never find as good a dog as John is."

Mike looked at his watch casually, "Well, I guess I should be going, I have to head back to St. Bart's. Just call if he gives you any trouble."

"Yes, sure."

And then the door to his flat shut, and he was alone with the dog.

John stood across the room from him, tail wagging softly, as he watched Sherlock.

The detective didn't know what to do with the animal, so he went back to his experiment.

As he sat down, he sent a glare to John, "If you mark your territory anywhere in this flat I will toss you in the street."

John said nothing, as dogs don't, but went up to Sherlock. He circled the stool the detective sat in before painstakingly laid down at the detective's feet.

Sherlock watched him. John did seem to be well trained, as Mike had said. Now that he thought about it, having John around keeping the flat and Mrs. Hudson safe from unwanted intruders when he wasn't able to sounded like a good idea. Perhaps, if things turned out well, this would be a good decision.

John lifted his head from his paws and looked up at Sherlock, panting with a the dog version of a smile and wagging his tail.

"Well, John Watson, welcome to 221B Baker Street."


	2. Chapter 2

So, here's the second installation :) Which means more puppy!John, which means more adorableness!

Also, warning, this hasn't been beta picked or Brit picked. I'll do my best to make it as British as I am capable, but if anyone spies anything major off, feel free to inform me.

This story was inspired by** ausherlock's** Little Companion story collection.

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did it wouldn't take 2 YEARS to get new seasons out! But hey, I guess Moffat gets off on our torture._**

* * *

"MRS. HUDSON!"

Sherlock called down to his landlady (not housekeeper, he heard her voice in his head) from his kitchen. When she didn't answer, Sherlock knew she was out. The consulting detective groaned. He had been calling her up a lot lately. Ever since John was left in his care.

He called her up twelve times in the first three days he had John, asking questions that ranged from "Where does he go for the loo?" to "Why the bloody hell doesn't he answer me? There are plenty of dogs that have the ability to at least mimic human speech!".

He could tell Mrs. Hudson actually found the whole thing almost as adorable as John himself, which, of course, annoyed him. She had known Sherlock since he came and fixed that whole fiasco with her husband and the law, but never had she seen Sherlock so intent on keeping something….well, alive.

Neither had Sherlock himself, really.

However, he trusted Mrs. Hudson. She adored the dog and the dog seemed to adore her, and she knew a lot about how to care for one.

Now that it was Sherlock's turn to care for John, he wanted all his answers to come from someone like Mrs. Hudson, someone who he knew wasn't a total moron.

Sure, Sherlock could simply look it up on the internet, as he usually did with contemporary things he didn't know about, but he didn't trust the answers of ordinary people for this. Ordinary people overlooked important things, and Sherlock hadn't grown bored of John as quickly as he expected. He was certainly a puzzle for Sherlock, given in the form of activities like learning the body language of dogs and just why John was so interested in rolling on his back in the middle of the floor. He found he the dog's behavior and the reasons behind it much more fascinating than he anticipated.

But he couldn't form straight hypotheses if the dog was starved. Which brought him back to his current predicament.

He looked at his feet, where John was sitting, tail wagging, as he patiently waited for Sherlock to put food in his bowl.

It shouldn't have been that difficult. Any person, no matter how stupid, could put food in a bowl. But there was one thing.

His meddlesome brother obviously had anticipated the arrival of his new flat mate and promptly sent over supplies for John shortly after Mike left him in his flat. The dog bed was in the corner of the living room, across from his chair and next to the fireplace. The dog toys were strewn across the room, he would be sure to give John a good lecture about that later. The food and water bowls were in the kitchen. He called Mrs. Hudson up every morning and night to fix John's meals, for he had been called in for an important case the day after he got John. Simple, but important none the less.

So he left Mrs. Hudson to take care of him.

With the supplies Mycroft gave to him.

If Sherlock didn't understand the needs of a pet, surely Mycroft wouldn't either. And that's why Sherlock was calling for his landlady.

He looked at the canned dog food he held in his hand. Surely this was some kind of a joke? An attempt from his brother to off the mutt.

What kind of person feeds their pets mashed up animal parts that's been left in a can for God knows how long?

He heard a short bark, and turned to see John looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"What, John?"

John barked again, and pawed at his food bowl, making it scrape against the floor.

"Alright! Alright, I'll give it to you. But I don't trust it. And you shouldn't either."

John simply licked his chops as Sherlock pulled the can tab to open the top. As soon as he saw what was inside he put it in the rubbish.

John looked at the rubbish bin and then back to Sherlock, looking almost disappointed in a dogish way, and the detective almost groaned.

"You have a nose! Do you not smell what is in there? Animal intestines and adipose, cow udders, cornmeal? It's grey, John! No, you will be sick. How is it you've lived this long eating that filth?

John inched closer to the detective, pawing at his leg.

Sherlock sighed, "Yes, yes, I know you're hungry. Let me think, please, so I can fix something."

John waited at Sherlock's side for about a minute, letting the detective think to himself, before he gave up. If this new human, Sherlock, his new pack leader, wasn't going to feed him, he'd find something himself.

John trotted around the kitchen, his injured shoulder not quite hurting him as much as it had been at the veterinarian office he was housed at before being brought here. Although it could have been Alpha's blunt statement of "Stop limping, it's psychosomatic, and obstructing my analysis of your walking pace". Either way, John found his less-hindered walks relieving.

John sniffed at the cabinets on his level, then pointed his nose up to the edge of the countertop. Nothing smelled appetizing.

Until he reached something tall and metal. It hummed quietly. Oh, John knew what this was! It was the cold place humans used to keep food. Why humans would want their food cold, he'd never know, but he knew there would be food in there.

He sniffed the edge of it, and….there! He could smell meat in there! Fresh meat too. And something else, something sweet.

Now to get it open.

John looked back to Alpha Sherlock, the human was still doing that weird pose with his hands in front of his face. John knew Alpha could open the cold place. John just needed to tell him.

John barked.

Sherlock wasn't brought out immediately, but after a few more barks from John, he finally turned to the dog, "Stop that! What is it?"

John barked again, and nudged the cold machine with his nose. He wagged his tail, surely Sherlock-alpha would understand.

For such a smart human, his could certainly be ignorant at times. John didn't mind though. He liked his new home.

John had felt alone when his last Alpha, his last pack, hadn't woken up. His last Alpha had taught him a lot, something Sherlock-alpha didn't quite understand. Sure, he gave John basic commands like "Come", "Sit", or his favorite "No". But John missed his work. He missed sniffing out the things bad to humans. He missed helping his pack protect other humans.

Perhaps if he showed his talents, and his new Alpha would understand.

So John did what his old Alpha taught him when he sniffed something out: He jumped onto his hind legs and scratched at the door with his good foreleg, tail wagging so hard his whole backside was being thrown off balance.

John almost jumped in excitement as Sherlock came up, "John Watson! Down!"

John got back down on the floor, but he let out a growling whine and pressed his nose to the cold food holder again.

Sherlock looked at it and almost immediately opened the door. He took out the packaged ground beef Mrs. Hudson had bought for him the day before. Ah, John _was _smart. Smarter that any ordinary dog, yes.

Sherlock reached down to pet John on the head, "Good dog."

But when his hand reached down, Sherlock didn't feel soft fur but air.

Sherlock heard a sharp rattle and looked down, "John!"  
John Watson looked lifted his head from the floor where an opened and half empty jar of strawberry jam lay. He licked the excess jam off his muzzle, before looking up at Sherlock with a accomplished expression.

Sherlock stared at John.

John stared at Sherlock.

They stared at each other.

"Now _that _I know is not good, give it here."

Sherlock reached down for the jar, only to hear John growl at him.

Sherlock jerked his hand back, even though he knew the dog wouldn't dare bite him. The blunt, obvious show of disobedience still gave the lanky detective a slight startle.

"John!"

John just huffed and went back to lapping up the jam.

"Fine! Fine, get sick over it, but you're going to clean it up afterwards."

Sherlock looked on, perplexed as John's attitude immediately shifted to happy puppy, complete with wagging tail. The detective felt a headache coming on.

He looked at the raw beef in his hands.

John couldn't live off of jam, not matter what the dog thought or how much he liked it.

Sherlock walked back to the kitchen counter, unwrapped the meat from the package, chopped it, and placed it into one of John's bowls before filling the other with fresh water.

Sherlock ran a hand over the silky fur on John's back before moving out of the kitchen, sitting on the couch, and hacking into Scotland Yard's files on his laptop.

He couldn't stop a small smile from appearing when he later felt a lick of gratitude on his hand and a warm body lay at his feet.


	3. Chapter 3

Why is this so much fun to write? I absolutely love it! Perhaps it's because it's John and he's a dog, and the fact that both are undeniably adorable...

Anyway, enjoy loves!

This story was inspired by **ausherlock's** Little Companion story collection

_**Disclaimer: Still own nothing.**_

* * *

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"Sherlock, I've got something you'll love. Double homicide. This one...what the hell is that?"

Sherlock turned from the window and lowered his violin to find Lestrade looking down at John, who was chewing on a rawhide bone across the room, with a look of complete incomprehension.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Come now, Lestrade. Even you aren't idiotic enough to not recognize a dog when you see one."

Lestrade simply gaped at him, "But it's in your flat!"

"Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, please do go on."

John looked up from his treat as the two humans exchanged words. Judging by the way his alpha seemed relaxed, if not excited, at the presence of the new human, he figured the other man was a packmate.

John licked his chops and got up to greet Lestrade, tail wagging and ears flattened to signal his friendly intention.

Sherlock looked over at the sound of John's claw clicks on the floor. He found himself slightly proud when he noticed the dog trotted over to the two with noticeably less of a limp than he'd had the past week, although it was still bad enough to hinder his walk.

He sniffed at the Detective Inspector's pant's leg eagerly, and looked up at Lestrade in an endearing way, silently begging to be pet.

Sherlock didn't know why, he had pet the dog just two hours ago. It should have appeased him.

"Lestrade, this is John Watson, recently retired police dog, and my new flat mate. John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Close your mouth, Lestrade, before dust particles accumulate in your teeth."

Lestrade promptly closed his mouth, but kept the dumbfounded look on his face, "_You _have a dog? What, do you do experiments on the poor thing?"

"Oh, don't be absurd, I do experiments, but they're completely harmless."

"You _do _know I can charge you for animal abuse if it get's to far, right?"

Sherlock groaned and put his violin down on the sofa, "Oh God! Are you really going to give me a lecture on _that_? Of all things? I told you they're harmless, it's just calculating changes in his coat texture when he eats different food. Eggs produce the softest fur, by the way. Just changes in the environment. I'm not injecting him full of nitric acid, if that's what you're implying."

Lestrade seemed to contemplate arguing back for a moment, before closing his eyes and shaking his head. Sherlock just barely caught the muttered words, "Just when I think I know you."

Sherlock deftly narrowed his eyes at the graying inspector, "What was that?"

"Nothing," Lestrade finally brought his attention down to the mutt at his feet, he smiled and bent down to scratch John behind the ears.

"Hi there John, wow, you're a handsome boy aren't you? I bet all the ladies adore you. It's too bad you have to live with grumpy ole Sherlock."

John's tongue rolled out of his mouth and his tail thumped against the floor in delight. He moved forward and licked Lestrade on the nose.

"He's a dog, Lestrade, he doesn't understand what you're saying."

The detective inspector laughed, "Well he's a good dog, if anything."

Lestrade stopped petting John, but the dog must have enjoyed it because he pawed at Lestrade and let out a small, low howl.

Lestrade laughed, and Sherlock noted the sound in his mind and crossed off potential breeds in John's lineage, "Hm…definitely Siberian Husky or Alaskan Malamute."

Lestrade bend down again pulled John against his leg to give the pup a good rundown.

"I think he likes me better."

"Don't be absurd, he probably just has fleas and you scratched the right spot."

"You're just jealous that your dog likes me more."

"Didn't you come here to tell me something about a case?"

"Oh, right! Double homicide twelve blocks down the road. The victim's eyes, ears, and nose have all been removed from the body, no sign of forced entry. Will you come?"

Sherlock was already reaching for his scarf, "You go on ahead, I'll be there in five minutes."

Lestrade looked down at John, looking reluctant to leave the creature, "…You said he was a police dog."

"No, he's not coming."

Lestrade furrowed his brow at the answer, "Well…why not?"

"Do you not see the limp? The stitching on his shoulder? If he went out now he'd wreck it and we'd be starting all over again. I've scheduled an appointment with a veterinarian to get him an assessment for next week-"

"You mean your landlady told you to."

Sherlock turned back from where he was gathering his coat and scarf, "Don't you have a crime scene to be at? I think Anderson will probably be wandering around, staring at the sky in confusion, judging by how long you've been here."

Lestrade looked at John, feeling let down at the abrupt dismissal, "Fine. See you soon, John. Maybe you'll keep your master in line for us when he brings you on cases."

Lestrade walked out the door, and John made to follow before Sherlock held his foot out to stop him.

"Not yet, I know the danger appeals to your predatory instincts, but not yet. I can't have you slowing me down when I run after criminals. Now go back to your animal skin treat. I'll be back shortly….maybe. If not call for Mrs. Hudson."

John looked up at Sherlock, tongue rolling out of his mouth in a goofy dog grin.

"And don't make that expression, it's pathetic."

John licked at his hand once and went back to his bone, stopping in the middle of the living room to scratch under his forearm.

Sherlock turned to him, "John, if you would refrain from shedding on the carpet, please."

He heard Lestrade's distant call, "He's a dog, Sherlock, he doesn't understand what you're saying!"

"Shut up!'


	4. Chapter 4

Ok, so I've taken special author-based liberties and made up imaginary treatments for animal infections/sicknesses. So don't expect any of the medical knowledge to be accurate. (It would probably wouldn't be helpful for you to quote me on _any_ kind of veterinary medical advice until _after_ I earn my DVM...and that's still many, many years away people.)

Er...happy late Easter!

This story was inspired by **_ausherlock's_ **Little Companion story collection.

_**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sh**__**erlock, nor any other version of the Sherlock Holmes stories. **_

* * *

John laid down contently under the chair his Alpha sat in and busied himself with taking in the new surroundings.

Alpha Sherlock had decided they were going for a walk today, which was wonderful. John loved walks, even if he usually ended up unable to put any weight on his left forelimb afterwards.

Earlier, Sherlock had suddenly fitted his harness around his head and legs, careful with his injured one as always, and John could barely contain his happiness with getting out of their territory for a little.

Alpha Sherlock strayed from their usual walk path that day, John noticed at once but didn't mind, seeing as there were new sights, sounds, and smells to take in. However, they didn't walk nearly as far as usual before the tall human led him into one of the buildings lining the street, which was where he found himself now.

John noticed at once that the new place smelled alarmingly clean, the smells of the surrounding air molecules zapped together to create a strong mixture of other animals and chemicals (not the bad ones his old alpha had him find, he noted) that tingled his nose with every sniff.

In the end, he decided it was more comfortable to breathe through his mouth.

The other dogs that walked through were more interesting. He'd greet the openly nice ones with a wag of his tail and a lick to his nose, asking with his body language.

_Friend?_

_Hello!_

They'd respond in kind, although their leashes stopped them from getting close enough to sniff at John.

And then there were the dogs that John deemed much too overexcited or openly displeasing to deal with. He ignored the few growls and harsh barking that was thrown his way, and found himself content to poke his head out next to his alpha's legs and simply observe.

He shifted cheerfully at the thought, his alpha would be proud, what with how he was always telling John to observe.

Although, none of it served to explain why exactly they came to this new place.

His alpha was getting antsy, John could tell, and the mutt pressed his nose against the human's leg comfortingly.

His alpha sighed and reached down to stroke one of John's dark ears before sitting back again, less restless than before.

And so they waited.

After a while, John's bad leg gave a painful twinge. John shifted, but showed no other sign of discomfort. John huffed in annoyance and discontent. His shoulder was giving him a lot of grief lately. So much so that the set of stairs that led out of his home were becoming more and more daunting. John hated having to go down them slow, and getting nothing in return but a throbbing ache lighting across his back. John just couldn't seem to make it leave, despite what Alpha Sherlock always said about it being psychosomatic.

He was able to count a few more twinges before Alpha Sherlock's name was called, and Sherlock tugged John to his feet with the leash.

John stood, and shook off the pain in his leg before limping along next to Sherlock.

A few steps down a hall and some slightly awkward lifting on Alpha's part ended up with John on a high metal table.

Oh….

Memories came back to John.

He now knew where he was, but wasn't anxious at all with it. His old alpha made it a routine for the both of them, especially in the desert they traveled to.

This was the human's healing place for their pack members.

John wagged his tail as he sniffed and skittered around the table.

A healing place, always with kind humans who always were sure to give him lots of pets while they checked his cuts and bruises after a long day searching the rocks for the things that made fire-clouds.

His old alpha called it the "Vet".

John's tail wagging increased and he turned to Alpha Sherlock excitedly, sticking his nose out for attention.

Alpha Sherlock made a funny expression, "What?"

John's tongue flicked out to lick his alpha's chin.

_We're at the "vet", Sherlock! Nice humans, clean, no more pain!_

Alpha didn't seem to share his enthusiasm, "I don't know why you're so happy about it. It's the veterinarian office. Your shoulder has been hurting too much lately, and you know it. It's easy to tell. You don't scurry around the flat as much anymore, it takes hours for you to find a comfortable position to sleep in, despite the dog bed Mrs. Hudson bestowed upon you on Wednesday, and you've taken to lying down while you eat. Conclusion, your shoulder injury is bothering you more than it should."

John listened aptly at the deductions and though, not for the first time, how brilliant his pack leader was.

The veterinarian came in right at the end of Sherlock's triad of deductions and introduced herself as Dr. Sarah Sawyer.

"So he's been limping worse, you say?"

John heard Sherlock give an irritated huff as Sarah shone a light in John's eyes, "That's what I just said, weren't you listening?"

John shook his head and gave Sherlock a glance. Contrary to most of his kind, John did not always submit and cower to his alpha's ways. _Behave, Sherlock._

John gave a single wave of his tail when Sherlock caught the mutt's glare, sighed, and listed the abnormalities John had shown the past few days to Dr. Sawyer.

After some poking a prodding in all kinds of places on his body that wasn't quite comfortable, John heard her give Sherlock her diagnosis, "Well, the joint between his left scapula and humerus is having a tough time moving freely, from what I can gather he has a bit of arthritis caused by trauma to the joint, or when he was shot."

Surprisingly, Sherlock seemed to hang onto every word, "Not bad enough for bone surgery though."

"No, thankfully. Some physical therapy should remedy it, or you can take him swimming routinely. I'll give you some medication for him to relieve the pain and stop any swelling."

Sherlock stared at her, "But…you will need to do surgery."

"Um…yes, unfortunately. There seems to be a bit of an infection in the surrounding muscle. See how it's swollen up near the top of his leg? It's not a large amount, but I'll need to do a bit of cleaning up to extract the dead tissue and wash it out. He was stitched up or recovering in bad conditions it seems. Happens often when the operating instruments are disinfected properly. I've already given him a sedative, so we can work on it now-"

John looked from his perch at Sherlock, and turned his ears at the disgruntled waves he felt coming from his alpha. He should care, should comfort his alpha.

But…John was feeling sleepy. He laid down on the table as his body suddenly felt very heavy.

The voices were blurring, and John figured he should be worried about the sudden feeling of sleepiness, but then Sherlock's hand was smoothing down his fur. And John relaxed into sleep.

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_Thirty-five._

Sherlock waited in the chair near the entrance to the small veterinarian office, his arms and legs crossed over. His fingers drummed rhythmically against his arm as he counted the number of minutes the surgery was taking.

_Thirty-eight._

He fumed silently.

_Forty._

Infection, arthritis from trauma, what the hell were the other vets doing when they patched him up? He had half a mind to go find them and give a lecture on proper disinfection before surgery.

Otherwise John wouldn't now be in surgery having his joint lubricated, and the muscle around it cleaned of infected tissue.

Although, he supposed Sarah Sawyer was competent enough to complete the surgery efficiently, even if she wasn't the most clever of animal doctors around. She'd have to do.

Although if she slipped up once, Sherlock would be sure to have somebody revoke her veterinary license.

_Forty-seven._

Sherlock shook his head. What did it matter if John needed surgery? The dog was fine. He was fine. Why should he give a care about anybody else other than himself? His mind swirled in that though and Sherlock slouched in the plastic chair.

Why should he care about some animal? All it did was give him an inconvenience. Now he'd have to waste time on taking the dog swimming or walking. He'd have to stop three times daily to administer medication. Think of the cases he'd have to miss for it.

He shouldn't have to do that for someone else's mistake. For someone else's complete and utter stupidity. Of course not.

He looked at the few people left in the office chairs with their sick dogs and cats, their worried glances and open affection to their pets.

It was horribly ordinary. It was pathetic.

He should have never taken in that dog. He should've brought John to a shelter, rather than keeping it for his own entertainment.

What did he get out of if?

A few hundred pounds worth of veterinary fees.

Sherlock scowled, and looked to the door. He should leave. He should get out of this….thing while he has the chance. Before John is brought back. Before he can't delete this whole episode. Before he started _caring_.

He should leave.

_Fifty-five._

Let someone else take care of a crippled police dog.

Sherlock started to stand, the door called to him.

"Mr. Holmes, John is awake and ready to go home."

Sherlock stopped and turned.

Sarah held the door open for John, whose ears drooped and eyes moved lethargically from the local tranquilizer used for the procedure.

The logical part of Sherlock's mind rebelled. _Go, the door is merely feet away. You're fast. You can disappear and leave. They'd lose you. You can still get out of it. Let go! Leave!_

The mutt didn't put any weight on his bandaged shoulder as he immediately recognized Sherlock through the throng of other patients and walked over, before Sarah could stop him. Sherlock felt something twinge in him as the ex-police dog went and leaned his head against the detective's leg.

The dark-haired man stared down at the dog absently, trying to figure out why he wasn't moving. He barely registered Dr. Sawyer's voice as she handed him a few bottles of medication.

"…should be changed when you apply the antibiotics to his shoulder. And give him one tablet orally each day. If he isn't putting weight on his leg in a week, bring him back in. He's a bit loopy now because of the anesthetic, but he'll be alright by morning."

Sherlock stared at her, then to John's medicine.

He must have seemed vulnerable to Sarah, which he silently berated himself about, as she gave him a comforting smile, "Don't worry too much Mr. Holmes. John is young, full of life and energy. He'll be up and perfectly healthy before you know it."

Sherlock finds himself nodding, agreeing with her. John would be fine. It would all be fine.

He bent down and scooped the mutt up into his arms, for John looked ready to sleep his life away.

Sherlock looks at Sarah and asks, _asks _for Christ's sake, "Can I bring him home now, and come back tomorrow to pay the bill?"

And Sarah Sawyer must find a bit of honesty in his gaze. Maybe it's the way he scratches John's side absently or how the pup seems to relax into his arms, safe and trusting. Whatever she sees, it makes her nod, "First thing tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't respond in kind, simply leaves the veterinary office.

He doesn't remember hailing a cab, or convincing the cabbie to let a sick dog ride with him. He doesn't remember going up the steps to his flat and gently lying the pup down on the couch.

He's still trying to figure out why he didn't leave.

He mulls it over in his mind, tosses it around, looks at it form all angles, fiddles with it to no end, and, for the love of him, by the time the sunlight dies down and the flat is encased in darkness he _still _doesn't have an answer.

He wants to shoot the wall, but stops himself because there's an injured dog on his couch recovering from premature arthritis brought on by trauma and an infection that should have been easily prevented.

It isn't until Sherlock stands, and stares at the dog, at the one creature that has not hated him, been scared of him, nor left him in the better part of twenty years.

And Sherlock thinks, impetuously, that John Watson is the closest thing he has to a friend.

If he looks back, maybe that's what stopped him from leaving that dammed vet's office, from being free from the inevitable outcome of this companionship that he knows will come.

Sherlock sits on the couch beside the sleeping mutt, "That settles it then. You had better not leave before you've earned your keep, John Watson."

John doesn't respond, and Sherlock deems it worth it to sleep the rest of that night.

He went and paid for his dog's treatment first thing the next morning.


	5. Chapter 5

This story was inspired by **ausherlock's** Little Companion story collection.

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any version of the Sherlock Holmes stories. I do own dog behavior though...because I own a dog...that's how it works right?**_

* * *

Sherlock paused as he walked up the stairs to his flat. He'd just gotten through with a grueling, wonderful, incredibly _not _boring case that lasted three days. Yet, there was no flying ball of fur scratching at the door, nor a happy yelp to greet him.

John always greeted him when he walked up the stairs.

And Mrs. Hudson was assigned to watch him, so she should have been in his flat with the door open.

The door was closed.

There was no sign of John.

Sherlock ran up the stairs quickly, taking three at a time.

He opened the door and strode into the room, "John?"

"Hello, brother dear, nice to see you too."

Sherlock's worried (no, not worried. Since when does Sherlock Holmes _worry_?) feeling settled down and turned into annoyance.

"Mycroft, where is John? Please tell me you didn't kidnap and interrogate him."

Mycroft shifted in his chair and pointed with his umbrella to the couch. Mrs. Hudson had taken up residence there with a cup of tea, looking comfy and content. However John, who was sitting on the floor next to her, was anything but.

John stared at Mycroft, his head low and flat. His ears pointed forward and he sat stiffly next to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock analyzed the dog's posture.

_Not aggressive. The fur on his spine isn't standing up, no baring of his teeth. Sitting next to Mrs. Hudson, but is tense. Ready to spring into action in case of a fight, but not actively seeking it out. Protective. Unsure._

"John?" Sherlock watched him, perplexed. John made no move, except for an ear that swiveled to listen Sherlock's voice.

Mrs. Hudson ran a hand over the fur on his back, "Isn't it sweet Sherlock? He's a very good guard dog. I was just dusting when your brother came over unannounced, startled me it did. John won't let Mycroft get within five feet of me."

Mycroft sighed, "I shouldn't be surprised that you trained your…little companion to despise my presence."

Sherlock scoffed at his brother while he kept a close eye on John, "I didn't teach him that. You were just idiotic enough to barge into his territory and scare his pack. Maybe next time don't antagonize him."

Mycroft hummed to himself, "He's very loyal, very quick. You've had him all of, what, two weeks? You should consider yourself lucky. He could be the making of you, brother dear."

Sherlock voted to ignore him, and turned to calm John down. "John, heel."

John's eyes flicked over to him, but stubbornly stayed where he was.

Sherlock snapped his fingers sharply and pointed at his side, "John. _Heel_."

John let out a small, frustrated huff before standing and stalking over to Sherlock's side.

"Good dog. Very good," he reached down and scratched John's neck, sending over calm energy for the dog to pick up on. He smiled and looked at Mycroft, "It's been _three _weeks, four days, seven hours and thirty-six minutes actually. Maybe you should stop thinking about cake and work on your math, Mycroft."

Mycroft gave his brother an empty smile, "You should thank me, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"If it weren't for my suggestion to Mike Stamford that the injured dog he had in the park would make an excellent companion for a one Sherlock Holmes, John Watson here would be in an overrun dog shelter. Possibly awaiting his euthanization."

Sherlock gave Mycroft a look of disgust, despite the slight flutter in his stomach "Hardly a sob story. He's a perfect dog. Any family with half a brain would pick him to bring home. He wouldn't be in the shelter for more than a few days at worst."

Mycroft looked over at the dog, who had started to relax in his presence for the first time, "So it would seem. Do yourselves a favor. Don't give yourself a reason to make any of that happen-"

"And don't give me a reason to sic him on you when you annoy me."

Mycroft continued, oblivious to Sherlock's comment, "-And don't give _me _a reason either. He's a dog, Sherlock, not a human. Don't make the mistake of thinking he is. After all, we still remember what happened to Redbeard, don't we?"

The name hits Sherlock like a bullet to the chest, bringing forth an avalanche of memories from his Mind Palace. Sherlock doesn't want to compare the results to John.

The suffocating feeling is quickly pushed down, but Sherlock lets his anger bubble up from the subtle threat. John shuffles and leans against his leg like a spiritual guardian in his distress, and Mycroft is slightly surprised at the intelligence he sees lingering in the pup's eyes.

Sherlock points to the door. His voice holds no room for argument, "I think your visiting time is over, Mycroft."

Mycroft takes the hint, sensing that anymore time spent in 221B would result in Sherlock reaching his nerve's end. He takes his umbrella from its position leaning against the chair.

"Until later then, brother," Mycroft send a last, sparing glance down at John, "You may want to change his bandage. He's due for his medicine."

Mycroft sends a ghost of a smile at the dog, "Wouldn't want that shoulder wound to regress."

And with that last piece of advice, the British Government is gone.

Sherlock audibly lets out a sigh. Mrs. Hudson gets up from her spot on the couch.

"You two boys always have such lovely conversations with each other."

Sherlock huffed, "Don't use sarcasm, Mrs. Hudson. It doesn't suit you."

The landlady tutted at him before kissing both Sherlock and John on the head.

"His medicine is on the kitchen table, love. I'll bring up some leftovers. Just this once. Mrs. Turner brought over a lovely bisque earlier today."

The landlady heard Sherlock grunt a response out as she waltzed downstairs to fix him a bowl.

On her way back up, she almost dropped the tray of food on the stair landing when she caught a glimpse of the residents of 221B.

Sherlock sat crossed legged on the floor in front of John, applying the medicated gel to John with a tenderness Mrs. Hudson had never seen in Sherlock before.

The dog leaned forward and touched his brown nose to Sherlock's shoulder in return.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and lightly turned back down the stairs, not wanting to disturb the moment.

She was sure little John Watson was a very good thing for him. A dog does not judge, it does not insult, it does not lie, and it is a friend to anyone that treats them right. And if there was anything Sherlock needed, it was a friend.

Although, Mrs. Hudson wasn't quite sure if he realized it yet.

Little did she know, as Sherlock reapplied the bandage to John, he was making a silent vow.

Sherlock gently picked up the pup after the bandage was secure, and placed John on the couch. Although, he was amazed at how much John had grown in little over a week. If the dog's paw sizes were any indication, Sherlock didn't think it'd be too long before John was too massive to carry around the flat.

And as Sherlock Holmes sat next to his pet, listening to the mutt let out a sigh as Sherlock ran his hand down his back from the head, the detective knew one thing for sure.

John Watson would not be taken from him. Not if he had any say in it.


	6. Chapter 6

It's my birthday! So to celebrate, I'm...giving everyone a chapter? Yeah, that's how it's gonna go. (happy birthday to me, here's a present for everyone else!)

This story is inspired by **ausherlock's** Little Companion story collection.

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I own my birthday *Leaves and eats cake until sick*.**_

* * *

It was during a three A.M. thunderstorm when Sherlock noticed John wasn't in the room.

He was finally giving up on a particularly lengthy experiment for the night. Sherlock supposed it was as good of a night as any to actually sleep. In his bed. For seven hours.

How he despised his body's "ordinary" needs.

He sighed and leaned back to crack his spine, stiff from leaning over too long. As he settled, Sherlock took a minute to listen to the storm outside.

The lanky detective reveled in the harsh strike of raindrops against the flat. Sherlock loved the rain. Loved it almost as much as cases. The steady drone of storms did wonders to calm the raging voices in his head. He allowed himself a moment of uninterrupted listening to appease him.

As he stood up from his spot at the kitchen table, he gazed around the living room for John. Craning his head to look near the fireplace, he noticed John's red dog bed was empty. As was the couch, Sherlock's chair, and the rug in front of the fire.

_Strange_, he thought. That meant John was sleeping in the second dog bed in Sherlock's room.

The mutt insisted there be one there. He literally dragged the second bed into Sherlock's room when they acquired it. Why that was, Sherlock would never know.

Even so, ninety percent of the time John vouched to sleep in the living room, where he was able keep an eye on the door. A nice trait that made him a brilliant guard dog.

White light illuminated the living room as lightning struck nearby. It was followed by a deafening _crack _that echoed throughout the flat.

It was immediately followed by a yelp and a loud bang from his bedroom.

Sherlock turned from the window and nearly sprinted into his room, envisioning a criminal lurking in the dark.

"John?" Sherlock flipped on the light switch as he entered.

There was no burglar; however, John was standing in the far corner of the room. The banging had come from the bedside table being knocked over, and Sherlock rightened it before turning to John.

Sherlock observed him closely and didn't like what he found.

The mutt was shivering violently. The fur on his back stood on end as he stared blankly at the wall.

Sherlock edged closer to him, "John?"

The dog didn't stir, but Sherlock could now hear faint growling. John's lips curled away to expose gleaming, white teeth.

As he moved closer to John, he noticed the dog's eyes were glazed over, unseeing and unmoving.

Oh…

Oh!

Sherlock reached a hand out to stroke the dog's head, "Now John, sleep-walking is very unbecoming of you. Wake up."

Another lightning strike, this time closer with more startling thunder. The loud noise spooked the ex-police dog in his sleep. John lashed out with an animalistic snarl to Sherlock's hand and bit down with unrestrained force.

Sherlock was unable to hold back the pained shout as John's teeth broke through the skin on his hand.

John bit him. _Bit _him. Not one of his playful nips either, no. An aggressive, brutal bite.

John was always gentle when he play-fought Sherlock. The dog's teeth never so much as scratching the surface where they made contact.

This was not like that. This was not a playful pup gnawing at his trousers. It was a painful, tearing bite that made the delicate bones in his hand shudder from the force.

Fortunately, the dog didn't rip. John simply bit in defense, released him, and dashed to hunker down in the corner. Sherlock cradled his hand close to his body, appalled. He felt warm blood trickle down his arm, stemming from a sharp, knife-like pain. He tried to flex his hand and hissed at the strain it caused.

And worse, he had a temperamental, sleeping dog he needed to calm down.

Sherlock pushed the pain of the bite to the back of his mind. He lowered himself to sit cross legged on the floor, "John, now listen. You're asleep. You're obviously experiencing some sort of traumatic nightmare, otherwise this wouldn't be happening. Is it Afghanistan? I read that dogs can dream of past experiences, frightening ones at that. You need to stop that, your limp will come back if you don't. Especially with you dashing all about in your sleep. Not healthy at all, that."

He kept talking for another ten minutes, using his voice to bring John's mind back to the present. He relaxed when he saw John's eyes finally started to focus on him. Within minutes the dog was fully awake.

The frightened pup's stance changed immediately. John whined, high-pitched and laced with confusion. He edged close to Sherlock slowly with his ears flat to his head and his tail tucked tightly between his back legs. John lowered his belly to the ground, almost crawling by the time he reached Sherlock. The whining grew more frantic when his dog saw his injured hand. Sherlock understood John perfectly.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to bite! So sorry, Sherlock!_

Sherlock shushed the anxious dog. He scratched behind John's ears with his good hand, "You were having a nightmare. It wasn't your fault. And besides, I've had worse."

John lowered his head in shame and scooted closer to Sherlock. The dog tucked himself close onto Sherlock's lap and hid his head under his shoulder.

Sherlock let the dog cuddle close to him.

"Now, now. There's no need for such a fuss over this. I'm to blame, if anyone. Just a spell of foolishness on my part; reaching out to an agitated dog. I must be spending too much time around Anderson."

John huffed against his chest.

"Don't argue with me, you know it's true. Stupidity is like a disease."

Sherlock patted the dog's head a bit longer before standing. He studied his hand. The back of it was marred with two deep holes from John's canine teeth. The bleeding hadn't stopped and soaked into the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing gown.

Another whine sounded from the floor, and Sherlock looked down at John.

"Don't worry, it looks much worse than it is. It doesn't even need stitches. Although a bandage would be of some use. And I know I have some hydrogen peroxide somewhere. Let's just consider the both of us lucky that you're free of rabies."

The light from the street outside shone in through the rain. Torrents of scattered light brushed along the edges of the dark living room.

Sherlock went straight to the kitchen and fiddled around with the chemicals on the table. John followed at his heels slowly, body and head still low in submission. He stood with his body curled around the chair Sherlock sat in.

John couldn't believe what he'd just done. He attacked his alpha and injured him. He'd probably be pushed out of their territory now. Chased out and never be allowed to return. He'd have to wander, alone in the rain, for a new home. But who would take in a packmate prone to aggression in his sleep?

It was the nightmare that caused all this. The one that came to him some nights and had him twitching in his sleep. The one filled with loud noises and human screams. Of nights always on alert and days filled with the scent of blood. Of snakes rattling and jackals cackling at him from the bushes.

_BOOM_.

John flinched at the thunder. He stood stock still. He forced himself not to run and crawl under Alpha's bed like a newborn pup. It was only thunder. He shouldn't be afraid of thunder. He never had been before he went to the desert. Why now? Why when his shoulder was getting better? When he was finally comfortable this new place with his new pack?

John whined. He didn't want to leave.

Hands were suddenly around his middle and John felt his paws leave the floor. Alpha Sherlock picked him up with some effort, "You're afraid of the thunder. That's what set off the nightmare. Loud noises, ones similar to gunshots and explosives."

Alpha brought John back into his room and set John gently on the bed.

"You're not there anymore. You're safe, so sleep."

John sat on the bed and watched Sherlock slip in under the covers to fall asleep. He heard far-off rumblings from the sky, and laid down along Sherlock side.

John turned his head and licked at Sherlock's bandaged hand in apology before setting his muzzle on top of the detective's stomach.

After a few minutes, Sherlock's hand brushed along John's silky fur, "Don't be an idiot, John. I told you before, you're not allowed to leave…Although I said it when you were sleeping. Nevertheless, stop thinking and go to sleep. Or I'll inject you with a tranquilizer I borrowed from Molly."

John looked at him and let out a halfhearted growl to reprimand him.

He could almost feel his alpha roll his eyes, "Shut up before I change my mind about letting you up on the bed."

John couldn't help but wag his tail in amusement. Alpha was right, he was being an idiot. The mutt closed his eyes, and there were no more nightmares that night.


End file.
